


Amaryllis

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Sex Work, Trans Character, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 15:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3942265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam gets a very special present on his birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amaryllis

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s dark by the time they wander up the path, Sam plowing steadily along and Merry stumbling at his side. They said they’d walk him home, but Pippin was practically falling over by the time they left their table, and they had to put him to bed early. Sam never drinks as much as them, and for times like this, he’s glad of it. As they slip around the gate, Merry falls closer to drape an arm around Sam, leaning on him. For a moment, Sam thinks he’s going to start singing again and wake half of Hobbiton, but then he only whistles, “You’re going to love your present, or my name isn’t Meriadoc Brandy!”

“Buck,” Sam adds on, snorting back a laugh. He’s glad his friends came up to visit him for his birthday, always is, but they do have a way of sticking out. It isn’t until he’s opening his round door that Sam thinks to ask, “What present?”

“Your birthday one,” Merry announces. To his credit, none of his words are slurred. He slips inside once the door’s open, walking right off through the open halls. Sam stays to shut the door behind himself and hang up his coat, Merry already around the corner.

“Oy, where’re you going?”

“To your present!” Merry calls back, bidding Sam to follow, just shaking his head the whole way. 

He follows Merry right to his bedroom, ready to kick his friend out, although he’s not sure he can trust Merry to make it back to the Green Dragon alright at this point. He finds Merry perched on the edge of his bed, dirty feet kicking aimlessly over the side, and all thoughts of him and his alcoholic breath slide instantly out of Sam’s head. 

There’s another hobbit sitting next to Merry. Sam’s never seen him before and is sure he’d remember if he did. At least, Sam thinks the person is a ‘he,’ although hardly masculine in the traditional hobbit sense, lithe and fair and even slightly Elven looking, features delicate and soft. He has dark brown curls and bright blue eyes, and a small, trim frame, hardly any of it covered. He’s wearing only a sheer nightgown, or what Sam thinks might be a nightgown—he’s never worn lingerie himself or had a partner intimate enough to see theirs. Cut straight across his breast and held up by two thin straps that look like ribbons, the gossamer fabric just brushes the tips of the hobbit’s thighs, his legs held together and obscuring his lap. But it doesn’t look like he’s wearing any underwear. He’s hardly wearing _anything_. Sam belatedly realizes he’s staring but can’t bring himself to look away. 

“Pretty, isn’t he?” Merry laughs, and the hobbit next to him smiles, eyes still trained on Sam’s. Merry throws an arm casually around the smaller hobbit, drawing him tight against Merry’s side and cooing drunkenly, “His name’s Frodo, and tonight, my good friend, he’s all yours! Pip’ and I, such splendid friends as we are, bought you a night with the best whore in all of Buckland. Don’t be fooled by the innocent features—this is a real wild one. There’s no fantasy alive too filthy for our Frodo.” Merry ends his speech by turning to press a wet kiss to Frodo’s cheek, who only rolls his eyes indulgently. Merry’s beaming positively proudly.

Sam’s mildly horrified. He’s sure his face is a bright red and thinks his knees might give way. He’s speechless, and while he stands there, trying not to faint, Frodo turns to mumble next to Merry’s ear, “You didn’t tell me he was handsome.”

Sam makes a distressed sort of noise that only makes Frodo smile brighter. Merry snorts, “I didn’t think he was!”

Frodo says simply, “I do.”

“Anyway,” Merry goes on, waving a hand. It must be clear at this point that Sam’s not going to help him with conversation. “I know you haven’t been sure which sort to chase, but lucky for you, our dear Frodo has both in one.” Reaching his arm farther around Frodo’s waist, Merry pries open Frodo’s legs, revealing a small, pink slit with short, dark curls around the edges and in a triangle above it. Sam’s eyes go wide as dinner plates, made worse when Merry uses two fingers to pry Frodo’s slit open, showing Sam rosy inner lips, glistening with moisture. Frodo simply lets himself be shown off, while Merry leans against his face and brags, “We’ve got all sorts of treasures in Buckland, I always tell you, and this right here is one of our most spectacular. Our best whore has a nice little pussy between his legs, ripe and wet for the taking.” As if to emphasize, Merry closes his hand around it, cupping Frodo’s bottom and rubbing him, squeezing once. Frodo’s head falls back against Merry’s shoulder, his eyes slipping closed, and he makes a pleasant keening sound that goes straight to Sam’s cock. 

“Don’t worry, though,” Merry goes on, as though he’s discussing afternoon tea and not a whore’s crotch, “he takes all the right herbs, so you won’t be making any little Gamgees tonight.” When Merry’s hand slithers away, Frodo winces like he doesn’t want it to. 

He turns to Merry to ask, “Are you staying?” Even his voice is beautiful. This can’t be happening.

“No,” Merry chuckles, which blows Sam’s mind. He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to give up time with this gorgeous creature. But Merry climbs off the bed, explaining, “I know Pippin and I have spoiled you with threesomes, but poor Sam would probably die of shame if he had a witness.” He doesn’t make a comment about West Farthing hobbits, more conservative and ‘boring’ than those in the East, but it’s a complaint Sam’s heard from his friends before. In this case, he’s glad for it; Sam’s right that he’ll never get a word out with Merry there to see him like this. 

Merry makes his own way towards the bedroom door, clearly making an effort to walk as straight as possible, and Frodo calls casually after him, “Bye.” 

Then Merry’s gone. There’s silence in the room, broken only by the blundering footsteps in the distance, and soon the bang of the front door. He might end up sleeping on the lawn, but he wouldn’t be the first patron of the Green Dragon to do so. Frodo draws his knees back together, and Sam’s gaze lifts back up to Frodo’s pretty eyes, now focused solely on him. Frodo does look innocent, soft and sweet, with his cute little rosy nipples pushing at the fabric of his nightgown and his plush thighs hiding his entrance. But Sam’s still _petrified._

Finally, smiling almost coyly, Frodo breaks the quiet to say, “Hi.”

Sam splutters, “Hi,” and feels his cheeks turn even redder. He’s half impressed he got a word out at all. 

Frodo looks down. He seems to find Sam’s petrifaction amusing, which Sam supposes is better than outright laughing at him. He doesn’t know what to do. When Frodo looks up again, he opens his mouth, pink lips pausing, closing, then trying again, “Where do you want to start?”

Sam has no idea. He says, “I don’t know.” Whatever Merry and Pippin paid Frodo, it can’t be worth this. If Sam could burrow a deeper hole in the ground to hide in, he probably would, except that then he’d have to give up this lovely vision.

Frodo pushes off the bed, drawing up. He’s about the same height as Sam but feels smaller, simply because he’s so tiny around the middle, and Sam is the more common size of hobbit—fat and round. Frodo comes to stand toe-to-toe with him, so close that Sam’s belly presses into Frodo’s flat stomach. For a moment, Sam thinks Frodo’s going to _kiss him_ , and it makes Sam’s head blur together, like he’s about to faint. Frodo’s dazzling eyes fall to Sam’s lips, but he only whispers, “I can do anything you like.”

A shiver runs down Sam’s spine. _Anything_. He’s not nearly so wild as Merry seems to think him. Somehow, the only thing that comes out of his mouth is an attempt at a courteous, “I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo.”

“Mister?” Frodo laughs, his voice chiming like bells. It dips lower when he purrs, “I should be the one using titles, _Master_ Sam.”

Sam makes a choking sound that comes out half a moan. The next thing he knows, he’s covering his face with one hand, too embarrassed to meet Frodo’s eyes.

Frodo asks, “Are you really Merry’s friend? You seem awfully shy.”

Sam doesn’t answer. He’s not normally so timid. He’s just... a simple, plain old Gamgee with absolutely no skills when it comes to the bedroom. He feels soft fingers curl around his, creamy, smooth skin warm to the touch. His hand’s lowered from his eyes, and then Frodo’s hand falls away, and he takes a few steps back to perch on the edge of the bed again. 

He folds his hands over his lap, and he tells Sam gently, “It’s alright if you don’t want to do anything.” His eyebrows knit together lightly, and he looks down through lowered lashes to say, “I admit I’m a bit disappointed; I’m not normally so immediately fond of clients. But if you don’t want to...” He trails off, shrugging his thin shoulders. 

Sam very much wants to do _something_. Anything Frodo would like. The idea that Frodo would be disappointed to not have _him_ makes so little sense that Sam’s sure he’s misheard, but he’s too tongue-tied to say anything about it. He winds up asking hoarsely, “Do you want any tea?”

Frodo shakes his head. It makes his curly hair bounce. Then he looks up to muse, “I prefer sex, but I feel badly to take Merry and Pippin’s money for nothing. I could do something else if you like—clean, cook... I could make _you_ tea...”

“N-no, that’s alright.” The thought of Frodo bringing him tea swims across Sam’s vision like some lewd fantasy, even though he tries to put proper clothes on the daydreamed Frodo. It doesn’t help. He asks, hesitant, “Um... if you don’t mind me asking, how long are you staying...?”

“Oh,” Frodo says, mouth in a perfect little circle. “I could leave, if you like. I’m from Buckland and came with Merry and Pippin, but Merry will take me in his room anywhere...” 

Sam can imagine so. He would too. He feels a sharp pang in his chest at the reminder of it, though it takes him a second to realize that it’s _jealousy_. It’s a ridiculous notion, of course. Obviously Merry and Frodo are friends, and maybe Frodo didn’t even mean that sexually, and even if he did, it’s none of Sam’s business, but it bothers him anyway. He says quickly, “No. No, that’s alright.” Then he feels dreadfully repetitive and wholly unworthy. 

Frodo’s grin returns, full force and hard enough for his cheeks to dimple. It’s so radiant that Sam fears his knees are going to give out, and mostly because of that, he comes to settle down on the bed, right next to Frodo. He doesn’t look at Frodo right away, just takes a steadying breath. 

Frodo is patient and quiet, until Sam eventually asks, “Begging your pardon, but... how did you get into this?” Then he hurriedly adds, “Not that you have to tell me, of course, I completely understands if you don’t want to—”

Frodo cuts him off, answering simply, “Everyone needs to eat. And I don’t have anything else. My parents died when I was young, so there’s no one forcing me to be a ‘proper’ hobbit.”

Sam blinks. It’s a strange way for Frodo to phrase such an announcement. Sam isn’t sure if he should say sorry or not—it’s bad news, but Frodo doesn’t sound particularly put out. Sam asks, hoping it isn’t offensive but not knowing much about the whole business, “Do you like it?”

“Sometimes,” Frodo says, shrugging. “It’s a job, mostly, but I don’t ever do anything I don’t want to. ...I’ve heard some truly horrible stories about the way sex workers are treated in Bree and the like, but I’ve never heard of much trouble in the Shire.” Sam’s eyes go a little wide at the mention of Bree, and it takes him a second to place the location. Like most of the people he knows, Sam’s never been outside of the Shire, certainly not to a place like Bree with Big Folk. Frodo continues, “I’ve always liked adventure, anyway. The excitement of new places and new people, gathering stories...” He stops as though in thought, and it looks to Sam as though his eyes are twinkling. Sam’s only ever heard people wince at the idea of an _adventure_ , but clearly, Frodo isn’t like any other hobbit Sam’s met, not even his Brandybuck and Took friends. 

Sam’s never been particularly against the idea of adventures either, but he’s wise enough not to admit that in public. The thought of far away places does occasionally cross Sam’s mind, and stories he’s always loved. Curious, he asks, “Do you know any tales about elves?”

Frodo nods. “Plenty. Do you want to hear one?”

Sam reverently answers, “Yes.”

Frodo pauses. He looks out across the room, darkly lit with just the stars and the moon coming through the open window. He must be deciding on what to tell, and then he asks, “Have you heard the song of Tinúviel?” Sam shakes his head, marveling at his luck—he’d love to hear Frodo sing for him. Frodo muses, “It’s a love story, in a sense. About Beren, a mortal man who fell for the daughter of the King of Elves, back when the world was very young. She was the most beautiful thing in all the land, and Beren, fleeing from evil after his father was slain, came across her in a glade, singing and dancing. He named her for the Nightingale. They went through many trials, both apart and together, and I don’t know it all, but I think I can remember a few verses.”

Then, after a deep breath in which Sam is silent, Frodo starts to sing. 

His voice is even more beautiful wrapped around a melody. It’s a lilting rhythm, languid and sorrowful, and at first Sam’s so enchanted with it that he doesn’t realize Frodo’s telling it in the common tongue until the first verse is past. Frodo pauses between them, glances sideways at Sam and continues on. Sam watches him, listening, enraptured. 

The tale takes Sam far away. It’s easy to follow, once he’s hearing it properly, describing a mystical hollow with storybook heroes that Sam tries to picture in his mind. He’s always loved the thought of elves, though of course he’s never met one and never imagined he would. Frodo sings of them as though he’s friends with them, has met them and understands them. Sam imagines Frodo knows a great many things that most hobbits have long forgotten, and it only makes him all the more attractive. Sam’s ears are for the story, but his eyes are for _Frodo_.

Frodo leans back as he sings, arms straight and chest dipping, the nightgown slipping over his silken skin. The shape of his rosy nipples is made hazy by the pink covering, but Sam can still see enough to want them. Frodo’s legs spread the further he goes on, simply adjusting, opening and relaxing, while Sam’s gaze dips between his thighs, along the smooth flesh to the valley between. Frodo’s skin turns a shade darker, redder, around his entrance, somewhat hidden in the trimmed hair but still calling out to Sam. The lips are tight together, with only a thin, pink line visible between, and a little nub near the tip, almost peaking out. At a quicker look, he wouldn’t even see it. But he’s _staring_ , and he can’t will himself to stop. He only does when Frodo comes to the end of his song. 

Gulping, Sam abruptly looks up, knowing he’s been caught. He finds Frodo staring back down at Sam’s lap, and Sam follows the gaze to realize that he’s shamefully hard. He likely has been since he first saw Frodo sitting on his bed, but now his traitorous cock has gone and tented his trousers, undeniably aroused. He feels at an even bigger disadvantage than the man in Frodo’s song. He always thought elves would be the height of art, but that was before he ever saw Frodo, and now he can’t imagine anyone, even an Elven princess, being any prettier. 

Frodo slowly moves from Sam’s side, tossing one leg over his lap and lifting up to straddle it. Placing one hand on each of Sam’s shoulders, Frodo offers, “I could take care of that for you.” Sam takes in a breath and wants to grab Frodo’s hips, pull him in and hold him tight or throw him against the mattress, but instead, Sam’s arms stay loose at his sides. Frodo leans so close that their noses touch, and Sam can feel Frodo’s breath when he purrs, “I could get on my knees and take you in my mouth, or I could stay in your lap and ride your cock...”

Sam makes a choked noise.

Frodo kisses him. 

One second they’re apart, and the next, Frodo’s face has tilted just enough to brush their mouths together, and Sam’s are already open from his gasp. Frodo’s lips are plush and a little wet, softer than Sam can handle. He’s sure his own are chapped and rough. Frodo presses into him and holds there, fingers running teasingly up his neck and slipping into his hair. Frodo cups either side of Sam’s face, keeping him in place, and pulls back just enough for them to look one another in the eye. Their lashes are both lowered. Sam’s never wanted a kiss so badly in his life. 

Something comes over him, and he grabs Frodo back. His hands lift to twist in Frodo’s hair, and he pulls Frodo forward. Frodo’s gasp is quickly cut off by Sam’s mouth, twisting to keep their noses apart, and this time Sam pushes his tongue into Frodo’s mouth. He doesn’t know what to do, but instinct drives him to explore, map and memorize—he doubts kissing anyone else will ever match up to this. He cradles the back of Frodo’s head to hold Frodo against him, while his other arm snakes around Frodo’s waist and tugs him forward. Frodo’s lithe body mashes into Sam’s broader one, and Frodo mewls into Sam’s mouth, tongue coming out to play. 

For a blissful few minutes, Sam’s whole world is between Frodo’s lips. He kisses and kisses Frodo, turning and touching and tracing walls, teeth, tongue—every time he tries to pull away, he only gets sucked back in, and Frodo keeps matching him. Frodo’s fingers play through his hair, stroking his skull and tracing the shells of his ears, then trickle back down to his shoulders. 

Frodo gives him a little push, and Sam falls backwards, letting himself be knocked into the mattress. Frodo bares down on him right after, locking their mouths back together. 

It’s not enough. He scoops Frodo up by the waist and lifts him, turns him, rolls him properly down across the bed, laying his head in the pillows. Frodo simply goes where Sam puts him, opening his arms to draw Sam back into them, and as Sam descends on him, held up on all fours to either side of his body, Frodo murmurs, “You’re cute, Sam.” He presses his palms into Sam’s elbows and draws them up Sam’s arms, lingering along his biceps and adding with a pleased sigh, “And strong.”

Sam’s blushing again. He probably hasn’t stopped. He can’t believe that someone so perfect thinks well of him, and he mutters bashfully, “I’m just a gardener.”

Grinning, Frodo asks, “Does that mean you’re good with your hands?”

Not in the slightest, but Sam’s too busy kissing Frodo again to answer. Frodo kisses him back, holding onto his shoulders and slipping a hand into his shirt. He can feel his buttons being deftly undone, and that’s probably for the best—if he’d tried to do it himself, he’d probably stumble over own his fingers. He pulls back enough to ask quietly, “Are we really going to... can I really make love to you?”

“I’d like that,” Frodo whispers, and Sam can tell in his eyes that he’s sincere. Frodo slowly pushes the suspenders over Sam’s shoulders, letting Sam fumble out of them, then murmuring, “I’m already wet for you, you know.” Sam shudders, _want_ shooting down his body. He can practically feel the blood pooling in his cock. Frodo idly undoes the rest of Sam’s shirt and opens it, his hands moving to smooth over Sam’s round chest and stomach, heavy and a little hairy. Frodo doesn’t at all look like he minds. Sam moves down to kiss him again, unable to resist. 

At first, Frodo just kisses him back, still feeling about his front, but then those hands drift lower, and the tie at Sam’s trousers is pulled loose. He breathes a relieved sigh into Frodo’s mouth as the pressure’s let up, his erection slowly freed into Frodo’s waiting hands. They feel impossibly soft against his hard cock, boiling hot and pulsing in Frodo’s palm. Sam can’t stop his hips from bucking forward; he could spend himself in Frodo’s hand if Frodo let him. Sam thinks he could come to the mere sight of Frodo alone, or the intoxicating smell of him, or the taste of his mouth or the sound of his voice. _Touching_ him almost feels like some forbidden magic. 

Frodo tilts his forehead against Sam’s, gently pushing Sam away and bidding, “Get between my legs, Sam.”

Sam tries to obey, but he’s awkward and nearly frantic, and he half trips over Frodo’s legs, while Frodo lifts them up and spreads them around Sam’s lap. Sam climbs in between them, his cock hanging out of his pants and his shirt hanging open and his suspenders draped down his sides. He wrestles the shirt off after an embarrassing struggle. Frodo doesn’t need to undress. The nightgown reveals everything, the hem now pooled across his bellybutton. 

With Frodo’s legs spread, Sam can see what he means. His lips look like they’re more open, the crinkled insides poking out, shimmering with a clear liquid. Sam only wishes he had better light, but he doesn’t dare leave to fetch a lantern. He hopes Frodo will still be around in the morning. Under Sam’s intense stare, Frodo’s opening dilates, opening wider and shuddering shut. It doesn’t look like it can open enough to take Sam’s fat cock, and just thinking about putting himself _inside_ Frodo is debilitating. 

Frodo runs one hand down his own body, dipping between his legs, and with two fingers, he spreads himself open like Merry did, showing off his twitching hole. “I can put you in, if you like,” Frodo says softly, and Sam only nods, feeling incoherent. Frodo’s other hand squeezes Sam’s shaft, then tugs at it, pulling him closer.

Sam leans back down over Frodo, held up on hands and knees, his head bowed to stare between their bodies as Frodo presses Sam’s cock against his opening. The second there’s contact, Sam chokes, his hips bucking forward. He tries to apologize after but doesn’t have the words. Frodo pays it no mind. He rubs the head of Sam’s cock up and down his slit, then starts to push it inside. 

Sam sinks through Frodo’s walls, velvet-soft and slickly wet and stifling hot, brain thinning with the pressure. The sound of squelching juices is swallowed up in Frodo’s hoarse gasp, mingled with a needy whine. Sam’s pulse is racing in his ears; he has no idea what he’s doing. Frodo pushes him deeper, deeper, and he can feel himself entering a tight cavern, squeezing fast around him. Then there’s no more room for Frodo’s hand, and he brings them both back up to wrap around Sam’s shoulders. 

He nuzzles into the side of Sam’s face and breathes, “Fuck me, Sam.”

Sam immediately obeys. He snaps his hips down, burying himself suddenly in Frodo, and Frodo cries out, clutching tightly to his back and arching up into him. Frodo’s pussy clenches at him, shudders and starts to open again, near convulsing. The feeling is one of utter rapture, unlike anything Sam’s ever felt before. He’s never had his cock in anything more than his own hand, and this is nothing like that. He feels now like he should’ve warned Frodo, because he can’t possibly last long—this is pure bliss. He drags his cock half out on the sudden instinct to _move_ , and Frodo falls down into the pillows, squirming on the end of Sam’s cock. 

Sam chokes out, “You’re beautiful.” Frodo smiles with open lips, pink cheeks and half-lidded, clouded eyes. He looks like he _belongs_ on Sam’s pillow, even though Sam’s never done anything near good enough to deserve this. He pushes back inside, and Frodo mewls, hips cantering up into Sam’s. Sam pulls out, pushes in, and Frodo humps him again, hips kicking in to move as though on their own accord. Sam wants to say more, praise Frodo endlessly, but he doesn’t have the words, so he just turns Frodo’s face to his and dives back down. 

Frodo kisses back with an almost ravenous hunger. There’s so much _passion_ behind it, and Sam feels distinctly unworthy. But he couldn’t stop if he wanted to. He’s now driving in and out of Frodo at a wild pace, hard enough to scream if Frodo weren’t stealing his breath away.

Collapsing to his elbows, he fists one hand in Frodo’s hair, keeping Frodo against him, and his other hand runs down Frodo’s side, burying under the hem of the nightgown to feel everything. Frodo’s wonderfully responsive—he bucks or gasps or writhes at every stroke, every soft caress. He holds Sam back just as fiercely as Sam holds him. It doesn’t feel like they’ve just met. It feels like they’ve known one another for _ages_ , and yet Sam still has so much more to learn, more to ask and see and grow. He only wishes he could talk while they made love—one night isn’t enough time. 

Inexperienced, Sam can’t breathe through his nose long enough. When he lets go of Frodo’s lips to gasp in breath, Frodo tosses his head back and moans, “ _Sam_.” It’s the most erotic thing Sam’s ever heard in his life. 

He comes far too soon. He can feel Frodo’s body wildly flexing around him, liquids bubbling up, and he adds his own, pumping himself into Frodo’s ripe channel with a flurry of fierce thrusts. Frodo cries out, his voice breaking as his throat arches. Sam’s vision is whiting out. He shoves his face into the crux of Frodo’s shoulder, screaming his own end.

For that split second, everything he is spirals into Frodo. There’s so much pleasure that he feels like he’s going to burst. His vision blurs. He’s weightless. He can’t think. Then he comes crashing down, the feeling slowly seeping back into his bones, and he slumps down on top of Frodo, sweaty and panting. Frodo makes a mewling sound but doesn’t protest.

It takes Sam a good minute to settle enough to mumble, “Sorry.” He lifts back onto his hands and knees, his spent cock slipping out of Frodo’s lax body, dragging a mix of their juices. He wavers, then falls sideways onto the mattress, right at Frodo’s side. 

Frodo lies where he is, breathing almost as heavy as Sam. Staring at the ceiling, he mumbles, “That was _amazing_.” 

Sam couldn’t agree more. But it amazes him that Frodo would think so. It feels like it was too fast for someone with experience. Frodo shifts, rolling sideways to face him, and dips forward to peck Sam’s lips. 

Sam’s not sure any of this can be real. It’s too good to be true. 

He asks blearily, “Will you stay the night?” 

Frodo nods. “I wouldn’t mind staying longer, if you like.” Maybe because of the shock on Sam’s face, Frodo explains thoughtfully, “You’re sweet, and I like the look and feel of you. And it isn’t often I find hobbits that want to hear far off stories, like me.”

“I’d love more stories,” Sam blurts, before admitting, “But... I’d probably be just as happy to hear your read off a recipe for soup.” Frodo laughs. It makes Sam grin sheepishly, before frowning again to remember aloud, “Oh, but... I really am just a gardener. I can’t afford to pay you long.” He has no idea how much Frodo costs, but it seems likely more than he has. 

“That wasn’t what I was offering,” Frodo explains, “although I can’t afford to pay you for room and board, either. I’ve always liked Hobbiton, even though the people can be stuffy, and so far, I like you. And I think I’d like to get to know you better, if you’ll have me. At least until Merry comes back this way.”

It’s Sam’s turn to nod. His enthusiasm must give him away, because Frodo grins like he’s going to laugh again. Sam asks, “And you’ll tell me more of elves? Not that you aren’t enough as you are; I’m sure they couldn’t be half so pretty as you, though I don’t think I can keep u—” He’s cut off with another kiss that he melts right into. When Frodo parts their lips, Sam dives in for more, until Frodo pulls back enough to flop onto his back. 

Sighing contentedly, he asks, “Is tea still an offer?”

At least that’s something he can do. Sam pushes up and reaches for his shirt, half draped over the edge of the bed. He pecks Frodo’s cheek to promise, “I’ll have it ready in a moment.”

But as he climbs off the bed, Frodo follows, promising, “I’ll come tell you of Gil-galad.” 

And his hand slips into Sam’s.


End file.
